3.

THE GENERAL RE-READ THE LATEST MESSAGES from Kabul. He wasn’t sure what Kandar was up to, and that made him very anxious. But the real problem was right here, in Berne. He took Nick’s personal file out of the safe and started reading. Twenty-nine years old. Mother, Swiss, a nurse; father, criminal lawyer in one of the top London chambers and previously a diplomat; one brother, four years his senior, a banker in Singapore. The parents’ divorce had caused long-term damage — the brothers barely spoke to each other, the parents even less so. The mother had remarried some sort of crank, a beekeeper by trade, and lived with him in eastern France. As for Nick: nondescript school career, boarding school from the age of fourteen, very respectable double degree in maths and oriental languages at the University of Geneva. Nick’s passion for extreme sports — an odd fit with his reserved demeanour and thinker’s physique — had been pronounced even then. A way of escaping the trials of living with divorced and distracted parents, perhaps? After that, one of his language professors had encouraged him to apply to the FSS (Swiss Federal Security Services), where he was soon identified as ‘exceptional’. He always came top of his cohort of analysts. Three years later, he was taken on by the Entity’s strategic-analysis unit, on the personal recommendation of the head of the FSS.

Since then, Nick had made a real name for himself in the organisation with two operations. The first, ‘Air Kamikaze’, was carried out entirely by the Entity on behalf of the CIA. The idea — to set up a network of travel agencies to be used by Jihad trainees but controlled by the West — had been Nick’s, and he had implemented it from start to finish. A Gulf bank with a big presence in Switzerland had enabled the speedy growth of the selected agencies by offering credit and support at just the right time. These agencies were headed by hard-line, wanted Islamists from Palestine and the Middle East. They obviously had no idea that their work was being organised and financed by the CIA, or that every last detail of their activities was under surveillance, thanks to the most sophisticated electronic equipment available in the West. The network, comprising forty-two agencies, had supplied hundreds of plane tickets to trainee terrorists, who were then put under surveillance as soon as they arrived in friendly countries. This had enabled the foiling of several planned attacks in Europe and the US, without anyone working out what was going on. The agencies were still in business.

Nick’s second operation was even more famous. It was known as operation ‘halal pig’. It all began when a certain Imam Sadar issued a well-researched fatwa claiming that, contrary to popular Islamic opinion, the pig was not in itself impure: pigs could be eaten, and even kept as pets, as long as they were purebred Persian Gulf pigs, a breed dating back to the time of the prophet and known as the halal pig. An anti-halal pig website immediately popped up (in Arabic, Persian, Dari, English, French, and then a dozen other languages), calling for an insurgency against Imam Sadar, who was accused of being an unbeliever and a Zionist agent. The controversy snowballed, creating massive amounts of Internet traffic as the anti-halal pig website became a popular gathering place for Muslims all over the world. The faithful rushed to Internet cafés in the Middle East and elsewhere to pledge their support to fatwas ranked from one (rebuking Imam Sadar) to seven (beheading him). The faithful could also text their support to the brothers planning to pursue Sadar to the ends of the earth, and assassinate him. Hundreds of thousands of Muslims registered their support of the fatal fatwa, and even greater numbers sent SMS support.

The whole farcical thing — a product of Nick’s fertile imagination — had grown beyond his wildest dreams. Imam Sadar didn’t exist, and the website calling for the insurgency had been designed by a pair of Lebanese freelancers. Every time someone voted in support of the fatal fatwa, the website released a secret cookie allowing the user’s IP address to be registered. The text messages sent by gullible believers were also registered. Once the hugely powerful Echelon computer network had confirmed the data, the Entity was able to offer the best imaginable (and totally illegal, of course) global database of Islamist sympathisers to the various Western intelligence services. Almost nine hundred thousand people considered to be high-risk Muslims were listed, without their knowledge. For the few Western officials who knew about it, operation halal pig had become — with its blend of daring, cunning, and technology — a prime example of 21st-century espionage.

The general carried on reading.

As far as the Entity knew, Nick had had several flings over the last few years. He’d also had a secret liaison with a slightly older, 32-year-old Entity analyst, Margaret Hoffman. It had lasted a few months. Romantic relationships between agents were officially forbidden, but, given the success of operation ‘halal pig’, the internal security services had turned a blind eye. According to the file, Nick and Margaret had split up the previous September, so no action had been taken against them. The former operations director of the FSS evaluated Nick as follows:

Nick Snee: Poor combat skills. Poor shooting skills. Poor ability in field operations. An extremely clever boy, certainly, but rather spoilt, and has never known hardship or suffering. His emotionality and insufficient ability to handle pain mean that he could never make a top-level operative.

On the other hand, the former head of FSS Intelligence commented:

Nick Snee’s boy scout demeanour may hinder his career, but he is of quite exceptional intelligence, with a remarkable capacity for elaboration, and the imagination and spark of originality characteristic of the very greatest spies. He is the best analyst I have ever had under me. Despite his young age, it is my opinion that he should be given greater levels of operational responsibility in the immediate term.

The general snapped the file shut. Nick was a brilliant, promising individual, one of those rare people able to subvert the course of things on his own initiative. The halal pig case had proven that. What a shame he’d noticed the CD case, with its twenty-four pairs of initials. Twenty-four names that should never have featured in a report like this, but now did. And that changed everything.

He sighed, and walked over to the secure meeting room. Joseph was waiting for him, sitting at the other end of the long table. He was of medium height, and wearing dockers and a black polo-neck jumper that emphasised his narrow hips and powerful shoulders. It was impossible to tell his age. His hair was grey, and combed back. He had a strange face, with the smooth cheeks of a child. His pale-blue eyes were as cold as death; there was no feeling when you looked into them, no warmth, nothing. Eye-contact with Joseph was enough to give most people goose bumps.

In intelligence agencies throughout the world, the mix of civilians and military men is a delicate matter. The soldiers have rigour, stamina, training, and total obedience on their side. Civilians, on the other hand, are often more imaginative and innovative, and generally more effective in urban operations. Civilian and military spies have always rubbed along without really understanding each other; but with the general and Joseph, things were different. The general had total confidence in his head of operations, even if he was a civilian, for the simple reason that he knew Joseph was the best of his kind. For his part, Joseph was no more capable of feeling empathy for the general than for anyone else, but he appreciated his professionalism, his nose for strategy, and his ability to handle setbacks. He saw his boss — with his rustic, old-fashioned manners and highly sophisticated brain — as one of the great warriors occasionally produced by the West.

‘How’s the manhunt going?’ asked the general. ‘It’s been four days. The client is starting to get restless.’

‘If Willard Consulting hadn’t fucked up, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Give me the time I need.’

‘The time? What time?’

‘The time it takes. These things can’t be forced.’

‘They don’t see it quite like that.’

‘They need to calm down, given the chaos they’ve created.’

That’s true, thought the general sourly. The directors of Willard Consulting had found out that there were two copies of the Mandrake report — one in Zurich and the other in Kabul — and in their panic had launched two operations at the same time. The assassination of the company’s own financial director had failed, and the man had sensibly fled. Plus the hit man charged with assassinating Wali Wadi had not managed to get his hands on the report, which was still hidden somewhere in Kabul.

A right mess.

‘How do we get this under control?’ demanded the general.

‘By cleaning things up. Here and in Kabul.’

Joseph’s thin lips were pulled back, emphasising the strangeness of his smooth face. He looked like a dead man, which in a certain sense he was. He had no family, no friends, no one he could count on. No one loved him, and he didn’t love anyone. No one slept in his bed, and if he slept with anyone, it was a prostitute. He had killed more than a hundred times, and he would kill again. Right now, even though nothing about him gave it away, he was feeling something akin to rage, on account of his team’s failure at the Factory.

‘Does Nick have the slightest notion of what’s in the Mandrake report?’ he asked, calmly.

‘No. But he’s clever enough to put two and two together. If he happens to guess some of the names that those initials stand for, we’ll have a problem. A big one.’

‘Should I take action?’

‘Not right now. First, I’d like to give him a more active role in our search for the fugitive.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s already implicated in the case, whether we like it or not. Also, he and Werner found the fugitive before anyone else; that shows he’s got something to offer. We need him — he’s our best analyst. He might come up with an approach that no one else has thought of.’

‘And if he does? I’m happy to wipe out all the traitors or Taliban you like. But Nick is different. He’s one of ours, and that’s not what I do, even if he is a pain.’

The general sighed. He liked Nick, but there was no room for emotion here.

‘We’ll decide whether to unleash your guys when and if that happens. It would depend on a lot of things. But we have no right to be weak, or even conscience-stricken — this case is too important. Can I count on you, Joseph, whatever the cost?’

Joseph shrugged magnanimously.

‘I’ll do what needs to be done.’

‘When do you leave for Kabul?’

‘In a minute.’

‘Good. Cut off all leads, by any means necessary, whatever the consequences. Nobody must ever link Wali Wadi’s death to the report. Not ever.’

‘You are aware that the official investigation is continuing? The minister seems worried. He’s not sure he can muzzle the cop in charge.’

But he would have to, whatever the price. The Entity’s IT guys had proven that Wali Wadi had made a CD copy of the Mandrake report. He’d encrypted it, but that wouldn’t matter to the Entity’s specialists, who had access to the most powerful computers in the world. If they found the CD, they would soon be able to read it. The investigating cop was the problem. He might happen to find it — the ultimate nightmare for Willard Consulting and the few handpicked Western officials who were in on the case.

‘Our instructions are clear. Stop him. We have carte blanche.’

THAT AFTERNOON, Osama started his search for someone to open Wali Wadi’s safes. He called his friend Reza, the head of the Kabul police intelligence department, which was a small service compared to the powerful Afghan secret service, the NDS.

‘So,’ began his friend, ‘I hear you’re caught up in a suicide? What was going on? Did Wadi have AIDS?’

‘I’m not sure yet,’ replied Osama, realising that Katoun had better do a serology. ‘The case is looking complicated.’

‘I hear that the boss is keeping a close eye on it. Do you think they were in business together?’

‘For the moment I’m floundering,’ admitted Osama. ‘Just trying to do my job without taking a stray bullet.’

‘More like a stray grenade, in your case,’ laughed Reza nervously. ‘Take good care. Right, now what can I do for you?’

‘I’m looking for someone to open a safe. A state-of-the-art European safe. No one in the science department can help me. Do you know anyone?’

‘Hmmm … not easy. I used to have a guy like that, who’d spent twenty years in Germany, but I don’t know where he is these days. I heard he joined Al-Qaeda, and died in Tora Bora in late 2001. Unless he’s hiding out in the tribal areas. In which case, he might as well be on the moon … ’

‘What do you do when you need to open a reinforced door?’

‘This isn’t Moscow, Osama! That hasn’t happened for at least two years. The last time I couldn’t get into somewhere through the door, the Americans bulldozed the wall for me.’

‘OK, I get it,’ said Osama, disappointed.

‘Hang on … I’ve just thought of someone who could help you. A kid who spent several years in an Italian prison for burglary. Word is, he’s a genius with safes.’

‘Where is he?’

‘That’s the rub. He’s in Pul-e-Charkhi. Block 7.’

Osama felt his body sag. Pul-e-Charkhi was Kabul’s main prison, and block 7 was a prison within the prison, known for its violence and terrible conditions. Only the most dangerous inmates were detained there.

‘Do you know what he’s in for?’

‘He killed a Coalition soldier. A Canadian.’

Osama paused. In this country, that was the most heinous crime imaginable. But it was also the sort of thing that would attract the admiration of Al-Qaeda supporters. Pul-e-Charkhi had been a Taliban stronghold; there must still be a few of them quietly occupying important posts.

‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking what I’m thinking,’ said Reza.

‘I am.’

‘You won’t be able to get him out, not even for an official investigation. Not even for a few hours.’

‘I need him. Who could help me?’

His friend thought about it.

‘Do you remember the prison governor?’

‘Yes,’ groaned Osama. ‘We met in the North as mujahedeen. He shot himself in the hand to avoid returning to the front. I punished him severely. He should have been shot, but he managed to escape.’

‘I’d heard that story, but I didn’t know if it was true. He still can’t stand you, I suppose?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so … ’

‘OK, we’ll have to find another way — an unofficial route.’ Reza thought for a moment. ‘We could try Mullah Bakir. He was the prison Imam until they fired him after the June 2008 escape attempt. I think he wanted the job because it gave him direct access to top Taliban members serving time. I’m sure he still has plenty of contacts in there. Do you know him?’

‘I’ve heard of him, obviously.’

Mullah Bakir was quite a celebrity. He had hosted a very popular show on national radio under the Taliban, until they shut the media down for obscure religious reasons. Every Afghan was familiar with his distinctive nasal drawl. He was an erudite imam, considered sophisticated and intellectual, and he led prayers at the Shah-e Do Shamsera mosque in central Kabul. He had been on the Taliban’s secret council from 1996 to 2001. He had not been investigated since — a token of good faith by some of President Karzaï’s inner circle to the other side, just in case … Mullah Bakir was also known as the most westernised of the Taliban, to the extent that the word could ever apply to anyone who preached a return to the most antiquated form of Islam.

‘Do you think a former Taliban chief would be up for helping me? I’ve killed quite a few of them.’

‘Mullah Bakir is different. He’s someone you can talk to. The Taliban kept very quiet about any disputes between members of their council, but they were sometimes pretty major, I can tell you. I’ve got a whole file on him. He was definitely the leader of the moderates. He was against the stoning of women, corporal punishment, and the forbidding of westernised leisure activities. He was the only senior Taliban to oppose Mullah Omar on the asylum given to bin Laden and Al-Qaeda. He was also against the Al-Qaeda strategy of aggression toward the West, because he knew the risks it posed to the Taliban regime.’

And how painfully right history had shown him to be … a man like that would definitely be under surveillance by the secret services, thought Osama. He would have to be careful if he wanted to contact him without the government knowing.

‘How could he help me?’

‘He has lots of influence with the governor. If you can convince him to ‘lend’ you the prisoner for a few hours, I’m sure it will be possible.’

‘How do we stop the NDS from finding out?’

Reza burst out laughing.

‘Amrullah Saleh got him the job!’

The former head of the NDS! An ex-mujahedeen Tajik and friend of Massoud’s who had himself killed dozens of Taliban …

‘Don’t get yourself all worked up,’ said Reza. ‘I’ll vouch for him. Will that do?’

‘OK. I’ll go and see him after five o’clock prayers.’

He hung up and unfurled his mat. He needed to pray before such a delicate task.

SHAH-E DO SHAMSERA MOSQUE had been a civic building before it became a place of worship. It looked like a quirky old European palace, with its pale-yellow walls, sloping roof, rounded windows, and columns embellishing a façade topped by a single tiny minaret. The inside smelled musty, of feet. A few of the faithful were praying on threadbare mats. Osama headed towards the mullah’s quarters at the back. He had come alone, by taxi, having first made sure to lose anyone on his tail, in case the security minister’s henchmen were already following him. He was wearing a turban as well as a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, so he wouldn’t be recognised. His only protection was a pistol and two grenades in the pocket of his jelak. Not much use, to be honest — there wasn’t a great deal you could do against a shahid willing to blow himself up.

A one-legged man was standing in front of the mullah’s office, leaning on a stick. One of the faithful, a spy for the extremist fringe of the Taliban, an NDS informer … or perhaps all three. Osama had come prepared: he handed over a brown envelope stuck down with sellotape, containing his badge.

‘Give the closed envelope to mullah Bakir, and tell him I want to speak to him.’

The man bowed and withdrew. He returned a few moments later.

‘The mullah will see you now, sir.’

He led Osama into a tiny waiting room, and then a huge room that served as office, living room, kitchen, and bedroom. There was a narrow bed in one corner. The floor was beaten earth, the furniture old and rickety, and the cob walls and cracked ceilings dirty, but a huge bookcase took up the whole of one wall, and several flat screen computers sat imposingly on the mullah’s desk. The piles of English and American magazines scattered around the place — Newsweek, Time, Foreign Affairs — were even more of a surprise. The one-legged servant withdrew, leaving the two men alone.

Mullah Bakir was sitting with a steaming glass of tea. He was a short, fat man with laughing eyes. He lumbered to his feet, held out a limp hand — good manners in Afghanistan — and embarked on a series of traditional Afghan greetings: ‘How are your family, is your body strong? Manda na Bashi. May your family prosper. May you live a long life.’ He still spoke in that strange, slow, nasal way, enunciating each syllable and pausing between sentences as if addressing a crowd. Osama sat down opposite the mullah, who poured him a glass of mint tea and pushed a dish of biscuits towards him. Osama was struck by how wily the man seemed, and by his innate elegance, despite the simple clothes. He felt even more inclined to be cautious.

‘So, to what do I owe this visit, qomaandaan? I hear all sorts of things about you. Some of it very good — you’re one of the few men at police headquarters to carry out your daily prayers. But I also hear that your wife has communist sympathies and supports the infidels. Is that the influence of your training in Moscow?’

‘Seeing as you’re so well informed, you must know that my training took place before the invasion. I was a young officer of twenty. In those days, plenty of civil servants completed their training in Russia. You know the rest.’

‘Meaning that you then joined the troops of that dog Massoud? I’m aware of that, yes. I know the role you played in the battalion that killed more than thirty Russians in one day during the battle of Taloqan. I even know that you killed lots of our men with your precious Dragunov. How many, exactly?

‘I will not abide anyone referring to qomaandaan Massoud as a “dog”. The Taliban disgraced themselves by killing him. He was one of the finest men our country has ever produced,’ retorted Osama, reeling from the mullah’s knowledge of his life.

‘He was killed by Al-Qaeda, not the Taliban,’ replied the mullah. ‘It’s not the same thing at all. But don’t let’s argue, brother Osama.’ He sipped his tea. ‘I don’t like arguing with honest men. To what do I owe your visit?’

Osama regained his composure.

‘I’m investigating the suicide of a businessman. I need to open his safes, and the only man who can do it is in Pul-e-Charkhi. I need to get him out for a few hours, without my superiors getting in the way.’

‘Which part of the prison is he in?’

‘Block 7. He killed a Coalition soldier.’

‘I know the man,’ said the mullah. ‘His name is Afouk Ak Tikrini. The Canadian soldier he killed had raped his sister; he was acting in self-defence. Those NATO dogs had no right to put him in prison. Once we’ve got rid of them, Ak Tikrini will be released to a hero’s welcome, Insha’Allah. You say he knows how to open safes?’

‘That’s what I’m told. I need to know if he’s able to open a European model.’

‘I’ll ask him myself. What make is it?’

‘It’s a top-of-the-range, latest-model Hartmann.’

The mullah wrote ‘Hartmann’ on a piece of paper. ‘Is that a Jewish name?’

‘I don’t know — and I don’t see why it matters.’

‘Hmm. Did you know that two of your guys from the Murder Squad were part of the team that arrested Ak Tikrini? You were on assignment in Herat that week.’

Osama couldn’t remember the exact situation, but he replied: ‘My men were doing their work. If Ak Tikrini is innocent, the court will release him. Nobody has the right to take the law into their own hands. I may not have been there, but I stand by his arrest completely.’

‘Would you stand by it in a Taliban court?’ asked the mullah, bluntly.

‘I’m the boss, so I stand by my acts and those of my staff. And don’t forget that if you threaten me I have the power to arrest you, whatever friends you may have in the Taliban or the NDS,’ replied Osama, alluding to Bakir’s ambiguous links with the security services.

The mullah burst out laughing.

‘No need to lose your temper, brother Osama. I’ll see what I can do. Come back tomorrow morning.’